


with broken soul

by hale (etacanis)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Apocalypse, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/pseuds/hale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're Death and War, companions and lovers, harbingers of doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with broken soul

**Author's Note:**

> Massive amounts of thanks and hugs go to [Lena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/capeofstorm/pseuds/capeofstorm) (for putting up with me rambling on at her about this fic) and [Nadia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pointblankdarcy/pseuds/pointblankdarcy) (for tackling the betaing of this fic and wrangling my commas). I would probably be an incredibly sleepy wreck without the two of them ♥
> 
> Title taken and edited from [Bones](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcmQQT0b-Hk) by MS MR. It's amazing, listen to it :)

He's taken whole groups of people with a blink of an eye, carried children away with a gentle touch, taken loved ones and hated ones with a smile. It's easy; it comes as easy as breathing: he takes a life, and fate fixes the balance. He trails after War, picks up the lives from the battlefield and carries them away, tiptoes after Famine and kisses starving brows and takes them somewhere, somehow, better. Once, he'd ridden a pale horse; once he didn't have a name; once, he didn't have a home, he had Himself and his horse. Now he's missing his horse, but he has a name, he has a home, he has a rattling jeep and an almost nervous disposition, and nobody suspects a thing.

People are scared of Derek these days. In the old days, people had run from Stiles, fleeing from Death and pleading for their lives. They had embraced War, welcomed him in and sat him down and let him kill their sons, so long as he killed someone elses too. They still do; they still embrace War, but as for Derek - Derek, the human (they think) who lives among them, Derek with his dark expressions and his stoic silence - it's Derek they're concerned about. 

Stiles has never been afraid of him. They've always worked hand in hand, Derek leading the way for all eternity, across continents, lingering in countries, his wolf form twisting its way through battle, sneering and snarling and blood-stained, Death's hand twisted in his fur. They have stood on ships and watched the oceans run red. Derek himself had overseen the creation of the atomic bomb, and Stiles had cleaned up the mess. They are companions, friends, as close to friends as they can be: closer than Stiles is with Lydia, who makes people _suffer_ , who stretches out their pain and hunger, who has never needed Stiles right there with her; and closer than Derek and Allison, who follows in after Derek, conquering the land he clears.

 

Stiles can't remember the battle where they shared their first kiss. He remembers Derek, full of energy, bursting with life, he remembers the clang of swords and shouts and screams, he remembers being _tired_ , the sort of tired that aches in his bones, cold and biting and endless. He remembers Derek's mouth tasting of blood, dark and dirty and wrong. He remembers not being able to let go, Derek biting against his lips, huffs of breath, the smell of death caught in his nose, the pressure of his duty building in his chest.

They hadn't had names then, not yet, he'd had nothing to call him; he'd just groaned into the kiss, fisted his hands in the cloak Derek had worn then. If they'd had names, something more than mere existence, he might have moaned it into the kiss, might have shaped it with a bite and carved it into his skin, might have burned himself alive with it.

"Go," Derek had said, pushing him away with a nip at his lips. Duty called, ever beckoning, but it mingled too now with desire, fire and fire burning together, low and desperate and full of need.

 

"The end is coming," Derek says. Outside, the sun shines and birds sing. A perfect day, but Stiles knows Derek is right, can feel it in his bones, the promise of great death singing through his veins. He's never felt a pull so strongly, not even with the last world war.

"The seals are close to breaking." And soon they will be called to the stage. Stiles longs for it, longs to see War where he belongs, longs for the feel of souls coming to him as easy as breathing.

Derek's fingers slip through his belt loops, tighten and pull him in, drag him close for a kiss. The usual hint of blood plays on his lips, bright red and shining, as Stiles nips at them and scratches his nails against the promise of Derek's jaw.

"I can't wait," Derek says, a huff of breath as he pushes Stiles back against the table, catching his fingers against buttons, pulling Stiles' shirt away. There’s bared skin, and he's biting bruises onto Stiles' chest, sucking marks high on his collar, a light scrape of teeth against a nipple like he can't contain himself, like his blood's high and he can't concentrate.

"Bloodlust," Stiles murmurs, drawing his knuckles against the relief of a cheekbone as Derek sucks a bruise onto his stomach. "Me neither," he says, as Derek unbuttons his pants, pulls them and his briefs away together. He's not fully hard, but he's getting there, and the cool air that lingers around Derek is a shock to his skin. His hips jerk, almost dislodging Derek from between Stiles' legs. Bite marks are blooming across his torso, red and not-quite-purple shocks scattered low to his hips.

"Patience," Derek says, mouthing the word against skin, but he's twisting his hand around Stiles' dick, blowing gently on the head before he wraps his mouth around it, warm and welcome as his head bobs, one hand still at the base of Stiles' dick, the other pressing into a bruise on his hip, keeping him down, tiny little sparks of almost-pain.

It's been a while, too long, but it's as familiar as ever, the way Derek sucks him down to the root and pulls back with an edge of teeth like Stiles might forget who or what he is, with broad stripes of his tongue to soothe.

It's perfect, perfect and he's swallowing groans, fisting his hands in Derek's hair, and loving the way Derek is so sloppy, so messy, how much redder his lips looking when they're around Stiles' cock, how hot he looks when he takes his hand off of Stiles' waist to press against the crotch of his jeans, it's perfect but it's not what Stiles wants, not when he could have Derek beneath him, Derek pinned to the table and begging him for more. 

"Up," he says, tugs at Derek's hair, and gets a growl for his trouble, a low murmur of noise that vibrates around his dick and brings him back to the physical form Derek prefers when he's spreading discord. "Up." He uses his _rider_ voice, the one that calms and soothes and forces people to obey. Derek doesn't have to, Derek doesn't have that same tug, but he knows what it means.

He pulls away slowly, laps at skin and flesh some more, fists Stiles' dick for a moment and nips at his thighs, bruises, leaves the perfect form of his teeth behind.

" _Derek_." Stiles' voice cracks around the r and he fists his hands in the shoulders of Derek's shirt, tugs it off and pulls him up. He doesn't _cling_ , but he keeps a hand in Derek's hair, holds on tight as he pulls him in for another kiss, messy and desperate, clacks of teeth catching together as he scrabbles at the waist of Derek's jeans with his free hand. His nails catch, and Derek hisses into the kiss, thick red welts raising on his skin.

"I want to fuck you," he says, nudges his nose against Derek's jugular, tracing a vein with his tongue. There's a noise of approval from Derek, low and keening as he steps out of his jeans. He's already hard, thick and warm against Stiles' thigh as he ruts up against him. "Fuck, shit," he mouths the words against Derek's skin, spins them around with a move that'd be smoother from Derek, stumbles a bit on his own pants but manages it, presses Derek against the table, presses himself to Derek's back and nips at the back of his neck. He's beautiful like this, propped up on his arms, back muscles rippling, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles, his eyes lidded, eyes bright and shining. He's gorgeous normally, handsome and overwhelming, the sort of man you can't look away from, but like this he's stunning, breathtaking and beautiful and wrong.

With the nudge of Stiles' thumb against his jaw, the pressure of the tip of his finger against the corner of his lips, Derek draws two of Stiles' fingers into his mouth, works his tongue around them, licks at them, loud and dirty, spit slicking and shining his lips, his eyes fixed on Stiles'. He slips his fingers through, muffling a moan into Derek's tattoo.

Derek's legs are spread, Stiles slotting in perfectly behind him, one hand resting at the base of Derek's back. His other hand runs between Derek's thighs, spreads his cheeks with two fingers, and he edges his thumb around the rim of Derek's hole. His fingers are still slick and wet, easy to work into Derek, who presses back, presses his hands down against the table and presses back against Stiles’ hand, huffing a shattered breath as Stiles pulls them back out again.

"Stiles," he says, dropping his forehead to the table. He breathes out as Stiles slides his fingers back. His voice shakes around the Stiles, his shoulders dip and his back raises, a smooth motion beneath Stiles' hand. "Don't tease." He wants to, he really wants to, but Derek's fingers are clawing against the table, his legs spread so wide and his skin so flushed and he wants _Derek_ more than he wants to tease him, more than he wants to push him to the edge and hold him there until _he_ decides to let go. He spits in his hand, slicks his dick and for a moment, he thinks of the lube upstairs, tucked away in a drawer, waiting for days like this, but it's upstairs, a minute away at least, a minute he doesn't want to spare, not when he's got Derek like this. 

Instead, he makes sure his cock is slick before he edges closer, lets it slip between Derek's cheeks, lets it settle, warm and perfect and Derek's pushing himself up again, one arm bent and pushing back to get the other to his dick. Stiles bends over him, wraps himself to Derek's back, presses kisses to his shoulders, scratches with his teeth against Derek's neck and _thrusts_ , brings himself up on his tiptoes to get the leverage he needs to rock against Derek, rock against the simple warm _existence_ of him as Derek jerks himself, thumb catching at the head, breaths pushing their way from lungs in gasps that catch on his teeth and curses that slip from his tongue.

"I missed this." He bites a mark to Derek's neck, payback for the bruises across his chest, the bruises that will linger, the ones he'll have to hide from people. His fingers scrabble against the sharp relief of Derek's ribs, stark with the way he's arching, usually wrapped tight in muscle and skin and sinew. He wants to bite harder, wants to feel Derek's blood through the salt of his sweat, wants to really _feel_ him beneath him. "I missed you. Missed _us_."

"Yes." Simple as always. " _Yes_ , fuck, Stiles, _fuck_." He's breathy, muscles tense beneath Stiles' hands as he pushes him down, pushes him into the table with every thrust. If Stiles could see his face, he knows how it'd look, a flush high on his cheeks, eyes too shiny, too dark; he'd look broken and wrecked and wonderful, all because of _Stiles_ , the only one who can do this to him, the only one who can take such a powerful being and _destroy_ him, rebuild him only out of weaknesses.

Derek’s muscles are shuddering, his back rippling and undulating, arching in and away, in and away, as if he can't decide what he wants, can't decide what pressure is best, and Stiles knows he's close to coming, knows he's close to breaking apart.

"Come on, come for me," he says, bites down _hard_ on Derek, feels the keen as much as he hears it, feels the way Derek's body shakes as he comes. He's close too, the tension burning in the pit of his stomach, but it's the way Derek splays across the table, breathing hard, the way he groans and still pushes his hips back.

"Stiles." His voice is rough and raw, broken, _so broken_ , and that's what pulls Stiles across, drags his orgasm from him. His come stripes Derek's back, a brand the same as the bright bite mark on Derek's shoulder. 

"Fuck," Stiles says, propping himself up on the table, staring down at Derek like he's not real, like with a blink he'll be gone. 

"Yeah," Derek murmurs, face still pressed to the table. "Yeah."

 

The seals break in the Summer. One moment it's the two of them, stretched out languid in the sun, limbs wrapped around each other, lips tracing familiar curves, fingers slotting into the places they belong, and the next, Derek's taken his wolf form and he's off at a sprint, a war calling him half the world away. For a moment, Stiles stands there in the clearing, sun beating down on his skin, warming him to the bone, but it's barely seconds before his stomach is pitching with something not unlike excitement, and he's following Derek's path, following him straight to a battlefield already awash with blood.

He passes through unseen, his fingertips barely grazing those he takes; he loses count quicker than ever, endless souls to steal, more stretching out ahead him, and he can feel Lydia, far away, the other side of the world perhaps, racking up her own count, a reminder that he'll be needed there soon enough.

Derek's fur is matted with blood when he nudges against Stiles' tracing fingers. He holds on for a moment, anchors himself against the sounds of war and the smell of death with his hand locked on Derek, but then the fur is gone, replaced by skin, smooth but just as stabilizing, and he locks his hand around Derek's wrist instead.

As far as the eye can see, destruction rules. The world is ending in blood and sweat and tears as they stand alone, untouchable. Soon, after an endless age for humans -- a blink of an eye for them -- the world will begin anew and they will start again, War and Death: companions, comrades, friends, lovers; and the rivers will run red for them, and them alone.


End file.
